With Love
by Passionworks
Summary: Ozula Week Prompt Six. Most fathers are overjoyed by the birth of their children. Ozai, fearing that his third child will grow to be as weak as his first, strays from feeling this way. Azula, a new mother now, yearns only to change his mind.


**Author's Note: I apologize for getting this one in late, but, hey, when you have guest coming over for three days, you have to prepare for that first!**

**I apologize for the OOC-ness of Azula. She has melted into the responsibilities motherhood brings... **

Prompt Six: Paternal

_I wish I knew how to be the daddy that neither one of us had…_

With Love

By: Passionworks

The baby awakens with an almost vengeful scream, wailing and flailing his arms above his soft, squirmy little body. His eyes are tearless, but he blinks and furrows his almost nonexistent eyebrows in a way that could fool any passerby. He has a dreadful grimace on his face, like he recognizes that the world will end unless his fuel tank is filled.

Azula stands above her two-week-old son's crib, sighing lovingly as she dives headfirst into the baby's neutral gray eyes. She notices almost immediately that his orbs are locked on her robed chest. Jokingly rolling her eyes, she slides her fingers behind his back, feeling his spine under his red and gold shirt, and picks him up. His wails subside only slightly, but his eyes never leave their target.

So, as Azula takes her hungry baby boy to the palace's spacious nursery room, she is surprised to see her husband –and father –Ozai striding hastily behind her. He has hardly acknowledged the fact that he even has a son –his _third_ child, no doubt –so, she finds it rather strange to see him so anxious to catch up to her this afternoon.

Well, her initial thought is that her father is simply wondering where she is heading off to, even though it is all too obvious. She regales him anyway. "Father, the baby just had his nap and now I'm off to the nursery to feed him." She states this without turning her head at all; her destination is too near for her to stall now. Surely Ozai would understand her, with the baby crying and slobbering over her shoulder and all.

He does not stall her in any way –much to her relief –but follows her all the way to the nursery, where he finds himself more than out of place, sandwiched between the pastel-colored walls. He is dark in his appearance, wearing just his typical Firelord attire: a rich, crimson, gold-patterned robe that flows admirably down his front and back.

Azula turns to him now, as if channeling his discomfort. She is frowning as she eases herself into the nursing chair in the corner of the room. She hesitates to pull down the front of her robe, holding her free hand at the slit steadily. "Father?" she asks in a questionable voice, a tone that is meant to conjure an immediate response. "If you have come to speak with me, I would much rather you wait." Gesturing her annoyance, Azula glowers at him as she reveals her breast and offers it to her ravenous child, who latches to it with ease. She teases the babe's beautifully dark wisps of hair with delicate fingers, but her eyes never leave her father's.

"I have aspirations for our son, Azula," Ozai responds in a most random way, his answer reflecting the undeniable fact that he has failed to listen –again. He fiddles his fingers in thought, each one tapping against the other in muffled pats. The Firelord often does this when he is entranced, far away, deep in reflection. Azula, however, wonders little as to why her father is so amused by his own statement, and stares down at the suckling baby, whose swallows sound greedy in her ears. It pleases her so that her son is full of life, despite his early birth. As of currently, genetic concerns plague his existence.

She shoves these thoughts behind her.

"What, Father?" Azula questions quietly, tickling the baby's cheek with affection.

"Our son has important goals to meet, Azula," Ozai answers. He gives his child a pleased look, though a pleased look on Ozai appears more like a calculating grin than one of happiness. Of course, that is what he is. Calculating, manipulative. Every statement he draws forth spits innuendos. This one is no different. Azula hates that he can't just actively appreciate the new baby in his life; he has to look for another angle, one that involves easy benefits. A baby to him is a clay mound in need of molding.

A baby to Azula is a seed waiting to sprout, something that needs to grow and be nourished.

"Father, why is the future so important to you?" she asks him keenly, making sure she has his full attention –which she now does –before speaking again. "Why can't you just be a _normal_ father?"

"This child will not be coddled all his life like Zuko was. I want a strong-willed, independent son, not a clingy weakling."

"This baby is just two weeks old, Father." She soothingly pats the baby's back, noting that his interest in feeding is waning, as he is growing tired again. Before he falls asleep, she unlatches him and switches breasts in one swift motion. Once seeing that his consumption is resuming, she continues, "And you're already making up goals for him? Why can't your goals be the same as mine? I just want him to eat, sleep, and soil X-many diapers a day. He's a surprisingly healthy child, Father."

"And healthy children are meant to be used to their potential." His is a curt answer.

"What is it that makes you so vain?"

"There is nothing _vain_ about making plans for the future." His arms cross as his eyes grow hard and stern. Azula is not at all perturbed by is change in expression.

"Well," she angrily replies, though still in a quiet tone, as not to disturb her son. He has long since fallen asleep. She ever-so-softly nudges him, wakening him. The baby stretches his arms and legs as his mother guides him back to her breast. Accomplishing this task before her, she looks up again. "Father, you're so mission-oriented. Come." She pats the seat of a spare chair.

Ozai, growling, obeys, and rests himself in the chair, a chair obviously made to accommodate only a woman's curves.

"You know," Azula says with a miserable sigh, "the last time you ever held the baby was just moments after he was born." She then rubs her father's shoulder caringly. "You talked to him, told him your little secrets. It was sweet."

Ozai says nothing and gives her a rather discourteous look, his visage reading embarrassment.

"Here." Azula gently pulls the full-bellied babe from her breast and plops him right into the Firelord's wide lap. "Hold him."

Cautiously, Ozai lifts his tiny son under his armpits and studies his wrinkled young face. The child squirms in his grasp, slightly uncomforted by the fact that he has been deprived of his mother's nourishment.

A loud, echoing belch erupts from the two-week-old's mouth, the acidic smell hitting his father's face like a heated slap. Without hesitation, the child then releases an evanescent giggle.

The only thing Ozai can think to do is smile. And, hopefully, thinks Azula, this won't be his last.


End file.
